Part 10 (1/2)
I sighed, scanning the vista for signs of Wilde.
”Yes, I pretty much do, and yes, you were right about me needing to take control of details and stuff,” I said. ”As evidenced by the Complete and Utter State of Terror I found myself in when I got on the Wrong Train. I'm never going to let THAT happen to me again.”
Charlotte peered at my face as we walked.
”So why do you look...less than thrilled?” she asked.
”Oh, I don't know,” I said. Which of course means I DO know, but please pull it out of me.
”What?” Charlotte asked.
”I just feel kind of stupid,” I said.
”About getting on the Wrong Train?” she asked patiently.
I wondered for how many years THAT was going to keep coming up.
”No. I mean, yes, obviously. But right now I'm talking about...you know.”
Nice sentence fragment, huh?
”I'm not getting it, Lily,” Charlotte said.
I could see Wilde's headstone several yards off now. It was a friendly sight. Even dead, the guy had nice timing.
”Madeline,” I said. ”I thought coming to Paris would give me my Madeline.”
”The cookie?” Charlotte asked.
”The magnum opus,” I replied. ”Madeline. The picture book.”
”I LOVE the Madeline books!” Charlotte cried.
”Exactly,” I said. ”Everyone does. I thought Paris was going to do the same thing for me that it did for Ludwig Bemelmans.”
”Your Great Parisian Novel?” Charlotte asked. ”What makes you think Paris isn't going to do that for you?”
I sighed and glanced over in the direction of Wilde. We'd arrived at his headstone. Me, author of nothing, contemplating the grave of a literary giant. I imagined a sympathetic vibe transmitting from him to me.
”I really got only one good nugget,” I said. ”A character like that ditzy designer broad we met who Janet thought was the archetype for Parisian chic. But it was while I was coming up with that character that I got on the Wrong Train. You know, at that point I not only had no idea what metro stop we were at, I'm not even sure I was aware of what planet I was on. And it's fine, actually. I learned my lesson. I need to be a Simple Tourist in Paris. That's okay. I just...you know. I thought I was FINALLY going to have something interesting enough to write a book about.”
Charlotte picked up her camera and snapped the cover off and on as she thought.
”Lily, if you want to write the Great Parisian Novel, I'm sure you can. But what makes you think you have to write about Paris to be interesting enough? Why does it have to be Paris?”
”Well...” I began. ”Because it does. I've got to get out and find Exotic Things, things that aren't from my Regular Life, because my Regular Life isn't interesting. No offense,” I added, since Charlotte was a central part of my Regular Life.
Charlotte sighed and took my arm.
”Okay. Let me ask you this, Lily. What's your favorite book?”
”You know what my favorite book is. It's To Kill a Mockingbird.”
”And why is it your favorite book?”
”Because it's the Perfect Novel. It has EVERYTHING.”
”Such as?”
”Fascinating characters. Drama. Comedy. Betrayal. Grace.”
Charlotte nodded.
”And where does it take place?”
At least she was finally asking some questions I knew the answer to.
”A little town in Alabama. Maycomb.”
”And throughout the book do we ever leave this little town?”
I entertained a quick, amusing thought of the Finch family traveling to Paris.
”Nope,” I answered.
”Nope,” Charlotte repeated. ”Because it wasn't necessary. The writer-”
”Harper Lee,” I interrupted, because it was nice to know something every once in a while.
”-because Harper Lee knew she didn't need to go to Timbuktu to write a novel. She wrote about a town like the one she lived in, about a childhood similar to her own, about regular people who resembled people she knew. She took what she knew from her own life, and she created something spectacular.”
”But Charlotte, I'm not Harper Lee,” I said.
”No, you're not. You're Lily Blennerha.s.sett.”
Hey.
HEY!.
I'd kind of FORGOTTEN about that! Like Harper Lee, I live in a small, ordinary town. But I am not a small, ordinary person! I am Lily Blennerha.s.sett. And I always will be. And whether I am wrestling with a great white shark off the coast of Tasmania or eating broiled free-range turkey on whole grain bread at home, I am going to write good books. Because it wasn't about Paris.
It was about Me.
I looked at Charlotte and wondered if it was a burden to be Right All the Time, as she was.
”You're right,” I said. ”Again. AGAIN. Is there ANYTHING you don't know the answer to? Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but is there really anything you don't know about?”
It was supposed to be a rhetorical question, but Charlotte appeared to be mulling it over carefully.
”Boys. I don't really know anything about boys, Lily,” she said. ”I know there was a lot of...um, confusion last year with The Boy and Jake. But you muddled through it. You actually have a boyfriend now! I can't help thinking sometimes that I never will.”